Free Wish You Were Here by Jodi Picoult Page B

the front porch, trying to placate a man who is arguing with her. Every time she touches his arm, trying to calm him down, he releases a torrent of Spanish. “Hey!” I yell, jogging faster as I watch Abuela bend like a willow under his frustration. “Leave her alone!”
    They both turn at the sound of my voice, surprised.
    It’s that same guy…again. “You?” I say.
    “This is not your business—” he says.
    “I think it is,” I interrupt. “What gives you the right to scream at a woman who’s—”
    “My grandmother,” he says.
    Abuela’s face creases into the soft lines of a thousand wrinkles. “Mijo,” she says, patting his arm. “Gabriel.”
    I shake my head. “I’m Diana. Your grandmother very kindly offered me an apartment when my hotel closed down.”
    “It’s my apartment,” he says.
    Is he kicking me out? Is that why they’re arguing?
    “ My apartment,” he repeats, as if I am too slow to understand. “The one you’re currently squatting in.”
    “I can pay you,” I say, scrabbling in my jeans pocket for money. I peel off most of what’s left.
    Abuela sees the money in my hand and shakes her head, pushing back at my fist. Her grandson—Gabriel—turns slightly, speaking quietly to her. “Tómalo; no sabes por cuánto tiempo serán las cosas así.”
    She nods and flattens her mouth into a thin line. She takes the money from my hand, folding it and tucking it inside her dress pocket.
    Abuela responds to Gabriel, her eyes flashing, and for a moment, he has the grace to look embarrassed. “My grandmother,” he says, “wants me to tell you that I moved out a month ago and that she can give the space to anyone she wants.” He narrows his eyes at me. “Why aren’t you in the apartment?”
    “I’m sorry,” I say. “I can’t quite keep up. Do you want me there, or don’t you?”
    “There’s a curfew.” His eyes narrow on my wet hair. “You’re dripping. Onto my shirt.”
    My God, everything is a personal affront to this man.
    Suddenly Gabriel’s face changes. “Jesucristo,” he swears, as he rushes past me and grabs the shoulders of someone in the street. He looks like he can’t decide whether to hug or throttle them.
    I watch as relief wins out in him. His arms circle tightly, and on the porch, Abuela’s eyes fill with tears. She crosses herself.
    I don’t know what Gabriel is saying, because he is speaking Spanish. But from this angle, I can see the face of the person he’s embracing. It’s the girl from the dock at Concha de Perla, her sweatshirt still pulled past her wrists, her eyes fixed on mine, silently begging me to keep her secret.

Three
    For the next few days, I slip into a routine. In the mornings, I go for runs. I go as far as I can along the beach; I hike past the tortoise breeding center and Concha de Perla; I take paths that lead me into the heart of Isabela and to its cliffed edges. Sometimes I see locals, who nod at me but don’t speak. I am not sure if they are keeping their distance because of the virus, or because I am a foreigner. I watch fishermen leave the pier in Puerto Villamil in little pangas, heading out to catch food for their families.
    I wake before the sun and go to sleep before eight, because I can only spend half the day outside. After the two P.M . curfew, I stay indoors, reading on my Kindle—until I run out of downloaded books. Then I creep onto the postage-stamp yard of sand that abuts the beach, swing in the hammock, and watch Sally Lightfoot crabs scuttle away from the surf.
    Abuela brings me a meal sometimes, and it is a nice alternative to the pasta that is my main food group.
    I do not see her grandson or the girl.
    I start talking to myself, because my voice has gone rusty with disuse. Sometimes I recite poetry I memorized in high school as I walk in the thorny desert of the center of the island: Had we but world enough, and time; this Coyness, Lady, were no crime. Sometimes I hum when I wring out my clothes, washed in